Category: A Very Short Story

From the Short Story Vault

Death Defines Us

…Death wasn’t something that was really real to us. We weren’t oblivious to it but it was something that happened to old people: Grandparents, Grand Uncles or Grand Aunts.  Old people. People over 40.  Not to an 11 year old boy! And not to somebody we knew who was only 11! No way. We were immortal at that age.

Suddenly playing didn’t seem so important now, or appropriate, or relevant somehow.  I turned to leave O’Grunt’s house and began my walk home, in thought, in shock, my head down in sorrowful disbelief, walking by rote as if in some automaton trance passing Darren’s house on the way.  There it was, on my left.  Nondescript.  Just a structure of brick and mortar.   Inanimate from the outside.  How many times have I passed that house without giving it a second thought or a glance, only knowing that it was Darren’s house.  But now, how could I even look at that house knowing full well the grey pall that was descending upon it like a cold blanket of grief: all encompassing, unrelenting, suffocating grief!  I couldn’t imagine the awfulness that was permeating through it like a deadly virus, throughout every room: in the walls, the floors, every nook and cranny of that house. Crushing memories of a child, of a son, of an innocent youngster who had his whole life ahead of him yet was saddled with the misfortune of not being able to capture the breath of life.  Even today, as I walk past that house it looks exactly as I remembered it, as I walked past it hundreds of times in my youth.  It remains to this day a very modest, post war abode: long and narrow, a red brick structure that was a home and very common for this street before the tear downs and monster home craziness began to destroy the neighborhood.

We all went to the showing.  I must admit how scared I was.  The foreboding atmosphere of the funeral home. The smell of the carpets, the incense filled heaviness and tension, sadness in the air.  Was this how death smelled?

We were all escorted into the viewing parlour.  I could sense that Darren was laid out somewhere for all to see but couldn’t see exactly where he was due to the large number of people there.  I think that the funeral home’s concierge sensed this as he made a path for us to come and have a look or pay our respects.  We all followed him somewhat gingerly, with some trepidation, for none of us knew what to expect.  I think I grabbed onto Jimmy mum’s arm at that moment in time for reassurance that all would be okay.  He looked at me and I could see a slight tint of foreboding in his face.  O’Grunts was non plussed about the whole thing but solemn looking nonetheless.  Big Maxx was there as were many of the girls in Darren’s immediate neighborhood.  All were in shock and in an emotional state.  The concierge sensed our fear and told us not to worry as Darren would appear to be asleep. Okay! That helps

Finally we were all there around his open casket. I think I had my eyes closed and then, very carefully, bravely, opened one eye for a short glance.  Darren did indeed appear to be asleep. His eyes were closed and his face seemed to be coloured with blush, just a hint of rose, smooth but pastel-like, with colour on his cheeks and lips.  Laying there straight up with his hands folded, in peaceful remorse, dressed in his pajamas as if he was in an eternal asleep.  Above his coffin they had a landscape form of the heavens, in a kaleidoscope of colours, with the moon and the stars sparkling as if in some magical, ecclesiastical collage. To a young boy like me it was both beautiful and creepy and I can still remember that scene as if I saw it yesterday and not 50 years ago.

We kind of paid our respects as best we could to Darren’s mom and dad and then got the hell out of there…

Death

…Darren was about 11 years old when I first met him, a couple of years younger than me. But in that stage of life a couple of years meant a great deal.  He lived just a few doors down from O’Grunts in one of those post war, red brick, long and narrow bungalows, or ranchers. He was a very fragile lad, sickly in fact, suffering from numerous ailments, the most egregious of which was asthma.  In spite of his frailties he always tried to be a part of our crowd although he could barely keep up with us with his constant wheezing, hacking and bronchial cough.  He tried to play hockey on our outdoor rink and baseball in the summer, football in the fall, and any other activity that we thought about. We always welcomed him but could not really accommodate his physical weaknesses in our game play other than with encouragement and inclusiveness.  Often Darren would just watch, then run, or skate, slowly toward us then stop, cough, wheeze catching his breath as if lost somehow then try again.  He was always part of our football huddles, omnipresent it seemed with that deep, raspy breathing of his, as if in a reverb state, somewhat like an echo chamber, powerful but for its resonance to reflect Darren’s difficulty in every breath he took.  

Thinking back now I am truly amazed at his courage and determination to participate in these types of activities. He would have been infinitely more comfortable in the more sedentary, intellectual pursuit but at such a young age the adventure, sense of belonging and sense of being alive, part of the gang, were probably more of an attraction for him than the limitations brought on by his physical liabilities.  Perhaps we should have been more enlightened at that age to welcome him but at the same time steer him away from our everyday activities to ones that would have been more suitable for his condition. Ignorant that we were at such a young age we sort of took him for granted, as he was always there.  Sadly, regrettably, we were ignorant of the warning signs that were staring us all in the face.

Darren died suddenly. This was a huge shock to all of us.  For we were very young as well and incidents such as a death tend to hit youngsters like us suddenly and without warning, like a jackhammer to the gut.

He died from an asthma attack, I do believe, though I cannot be entirely sure of this given that Darren died some 50 plus years ago.   O’Grunts told me of this tragic event, when I came to call on him one summer’s day

“Darren died” he said, as if questioning me somehow.

“No way. How? What happened?”

“Yesterday.” Sean continued “He had something of an asthma attack and couldn’t breathe properly. His dad got him to the hospital but it was too late and they couldn’t wake him.”

“Holy crap” I couldn’t believe it and just stood there, in shock, shaking my head as if somehow I could exorcise this news and make things real again. “Holy crap.”

Remember The Royals

…There was stunned silence throughout the arena. The Royal’s star couldn’t believe what he was seeing. From his perspective all he saw was an open net with a large blob like mass crouched, kneeling and blubbering behind the net. He stopped, looked around as if he was not quite sure on what to do.  He shook his head a few times as if in comical disgust then sauntered every so slowly down to the goal’s crease and tapped the puck, gingerly, into the net. All of a sudden laughter broke out from the fans. The players on both benches banged their sticks against the boards screaming and hollering in their amazement.  The referee and linemen raced toward the net expecting some sort of scuffle between the Royal’s player and McDink.  McDink seemed to be in total shock and awe and scared shitless to render himself almost comatose. I was told later they had to pry him away from the backside of the goal. They couldn’t get him up. He was a blabbering, blubbering nincompoop.  I do believe, though I can’t be entirely sure of this, that he pissed himself and soiled his shorts.  In due course they had to carry him off the ice. The game was over. 

But before all of that happened, Art skated up to McDink and in a loud, sarcastic but assertive voice told McDink in no uncertain terms:

“Remember the Royals”

And he did, and we did, for years to come.

Shakin All Over

…We let him be.  Like Moses parting the Red Sea we opened up a lane for him by moving backwards toward the boards on both sides of the ice surface. He had a clear and straight path to our goal. The only thing standing between him and hockey glory was McDink. What must McDink be thinking, especially seeing us, his team mates, opening up the lane for the enemy such that there was no impedance between the mammoth and himself? In what seemed to have been a Nano second McDink came out of his net ever so slightly, he looked to his right, then to his left, then straight ahead: his legs, his pads, forming an “A” shaped five hole that a Mack Truck could have driven through.

The fans were going nuts. The rafters seemed to be shaking. The ice melting, smokin, due to the friction and fire coming from the blades of the Royal’s star player as he was crossed centre ice in a blur. After a split second of assessment, analysis of the situation and determination McDink made his decision.   He turned to his left, then to his right, to his left, to his right, scared, dazed and confused, and then, in another split second in his fullness of time, panicking, he turned left again and ran on his blades to seek the protection of the net. Not inside the net to the back of the crease but the back outside portion of the net itself – BEHIND THE NET. And there he crouched, no kneeled, as if praying to his Lord to protect him, to save him from this terror on ice, shakin all over…

Whoosh

…Finally the referee blew the whistle as a signal for the teams to line up for the face-off and the start of the game. I wasn’t on the ice, second shift for me. Goliath was on his bench as well. Puck drops, the games on.  Confusion and chaos begin as everyone on both sides go for the puck at the same time. No sense of order, teamwork or synergy among the players. No one played positional hockey as there were ten puck hogs out there.  Everyone wanted to score.  Nobody scored.  Next!

Second shift comes out, more of the same. A little better coordination perhaps as both coaches are screaming at the players from the bench. Suddenly, a shot from us. Wide, puck ricochets into their corner.  A Royal defenseman picks it up and slides it over to the opposite side.  Another player fires the puck off the boards and down the ice.  Icing is called.  Line changes, puck is back in the Royal’s end.  Just then their wooly mammoth comes off the bench and takes his place on the right side of the circle. Puck drops; the Royal’s center wins the faceoff and hacks the puck back behind their net.  Suddenly their man gets the puck and skates with it behind their own net and just stands there weighing in on all that surrounds him. The rest of our team begin to skate backwards in rapid succession, some of us lining up on their blue line the rest of us at centre ice.  None of us would even dare to challenge this guy. He was not a normal 12 year old kid at 6 ft tall – with his skates on.  Skinny, lithe, slippery as a snake, one would think that being that tall and that skinny that one could just puff in his direction and down he’d go.  Unfortunately for us he was not the gangly uncoordinated klutz.  Far from it.  

At this moment in time I had no idea what must be going through McDink’s mind.  He surely had to know what was coming his way. He did seem to back up way into his net as if he thought by doing so would offer him some form of protection. Nope. Then out he slides, centre’d in the goalie crease and crouched with blocker and stick out to this left side with his glove hand to his right and arced slightly upward.  McDink did look the part.

The wooly mammoth of a player began to move, slowly at first, then accelerating. He deeked around a couple of his own team mates then turned on an oblique angle across his own goal toward his own blue line.  Faster and faster he went, with every cut of his blades. He leaned his tall frame expertly to his right pulling the puck with him as he went. It was a sight to behold. Then he leaned to his left until he was on a straight trajectory to our goal and our goalie, McDink. The only thing standing in his way was about 4 of us but we were in such a state watching this unfold that we couldn’t move a muscle, not that we would even try. From the centre line where I was standing, looking back at his end with him coming at us full tilt you could see, sense, feel the thrusts of his skates as he came straight for us. Like a rocket – whoosh!. His eyes ablaze, his face contorted as if his every move generated negative “G” forces. Woosh, woosh, woosh, as he flew past his own team mates then past us one by one. It was as if they, we, were standing still.  Crunch, crunch, crunch, the sound of his blades cutting into the ice; leveraging and transferring that potential energy throughout into his entire being…